


Making Plans

by otherhawk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Other, Warlock Dowling (mentioned), crowley is a snake, ineffable husbands, parental crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherhawk/pseuds/otherhawk
Summary: A few weeks after the notpocalypse Aziraphale frets, Crowley broods and in a rare display of competence they actually manage to do something about it."He frowned at the money tree trembling in his face. “Honestly, what does he do to you?” he asked, going on to murmur a litany of soothing words. In response the plant promptly shuddered and produced a shiny red apple, almost bending in two beneath its weight. “Yes, well...” Aziraphale looked aside in embarrassment. It wasn't the sort of thing he'd ever been crass enough to bring up, but inanimate objects tended to take on a life of their own around Crowley. The Bentley had its own tastes and Opinions for a start, and there had been that viol a few centuries back which Crowley had been so fond of and which Aziraphale would swear had bit him one night after he'd misguidedly plucked a string."





	Making Plans

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for Good Omens. I read the book as a young teenager a couple of decades ago and I was blown away by the brilliant TV adaptation and by the resurgence of the fandom. I have Thoughts and Feelings. Many of them.

Aziraphale was fretting. It was an activity he was both naturally suited for and very well practised in. On this particular occasion he was expressing his fretfullness by making numerous cups of tea and allowing them to grow cold, picking up and reading the first few pages of several absolutely blameless books before setting them aside, and glancing frequently at the telephone and the bell above the shop door, both of which adamantly refused to ring.1

It wasn't as though he had any reason to worry, he told himself firmly. Crowley hadn't _said_ he was going to come over today, they certainly hadn't had any plans. It was just that...well, it was just that since the notpocalypse Crowley had made a habit of popping in to see him of an afternoon. Most afternoons. All afternoons. And now it was well after teatime and heading towards dinner and not a word. Surely heaven or hell couldn't have got a hold of him. They'd both been sure they'd be left alone for the time being at least. And if either side _had_ figured out their little body switcheroo surely they would have descended on _both_ of them.

He took a deep breath and carefully laid the book he had been trying to focus on aside. Really it wasn't like he should _expect_ Crowley to just show up. In the beginning they'd gone centuries without seeing each other after all.2 But centuries had gradually turned into decades then years and in recent times what with young Warlock, and then the apocalypse and being on their own side and everything, well, they'd practically been living in each other's pockets.

It would make sense that Crowley might want some time to himself. He only wished, rather selfishly, that the dear boy had just said something. He'd rather thought they were heading towards something new here. Redefining the nature of their relationship, as it were.

A horrible thought suddenly struck him. If that _was_ what they were doing hadn't he been relying on Crowley to make all the effort? Here he was waiting for Crowley to come over or call...maybe he hadn't been showing enough commitment of his own? Maybe Aziraphale hadn't been appreciating him enough, and now Crowley thought his presence was unwelcome and he was going to stop popping round and get into one of his moods again and do something unfathomably silly, like sleep for another century,or move to America and cut off all his lovely hair again, or find whatever new intoxicants the humans were using and overindulge. And heaven...no-one only knew whether he'd remember that being discorporated wouldn't just mean a quick trip down below for some unpleasantness and paperwork in order to get a new body.3

At that thought Aziraphale snatched up his coat, ran out the door and hailed an idling cab whose previous fare had miraculously decided to get out and walk the rest of the way.

* * *

1Actually the shop bell had rung twice that day, but on both occasions it had proved to be a customer which was the last thing the bookshop needed.

2This wasn't quite true, in the Beginning they hadn't known each other at all, and in the time immediately after the Garden, which was more what Aziraphale had in mind, their temptations and blessings had been very much focused on the one existing family and so they'd seen each other nearly every single day, though they'd rarely exchanged more than the odd embarrassed nod.

3You might think that this is rather a lot of panic and suppositions over someone who has only been 'missing' for a few hours. But Aziraphale had had a very trying time of it lately and the effects of adrenaline take longer to fade in those of angelic stock than in humans.

* * *

  


He had been to Crowley's flat before of course. Well. Once. The night after armageddon't. But even if he hadn't he'd have been able to find it by following his awareness of Crowley through London, though admittedly that particular method of navigation would have been difficult to explain to the cabbie. The door was locked and he knocked a couple of times before walking in, rationalising to himself that he was just checking that everything was as it should be.

“Crowley?” he called from the hall, shifting uncomfortably as a wave of heat and humidity hit him. “It's me, dear. I thought I'd see if you wanted to get dinner?”

There was no answer. He moved deeper inside, telling himself that he wasn't _really_ intruding, after all they'd known each other for 6000 years and Crowley was always popping into the bookshop unannounced. Turnabout was fair play and all that. It really was very warm in here. Perhaps Crowley was just taking a nap. He always did like the temperature far too high, old serpent that he was.

Giving the spot on the floor where once had lain the foul remains of a demon and a thermos of holy water a wide berth and an unhappy grimace1, he followed a sense of fear and anxiety through a closed door at the end of the hall and was confronted with a wall of green. Oh, yes, of course, Crowley's plants. Gardening was one of those human preoccupations that Crowley had always been partial to, like sleep or music or gender. Aziraphale didn't exactly understand it, but he had once read that having separate interests was very important so that was alright. He didn't have to.

Well, this seemed to be where the anxiety was originating from anyway. He frowned at the money tree trembling in his face. “Honestly, what does he do to you?” he asked, going on to murmur a litany of soothing words. In response the plant promptly shuddered and produced a shiny red apple, almost bending in two beneath its weight. “Yes, well...” Aziraphale looked aside in embarrassment. It wasn't the sort of thing he'd ever been crass enough to bring up, but inanimate objects tended to take on a life of their own around Crowley. The Bentley had its own tastes and Opinions for a start, and there had been that viol a few centuries back which Crowley had been so fond of and which Aziraphale would swear had bit him one night after he'd misguidedly plucked a string. It wasn't like Crowley went around whispering 'Let there be life' all over the place, it was just that he could get a little overfocused on his obsessions.2

“Anyway,” he said brightly, dusting off his hands and getting back to the original point. “Crowley! Crowley, dear boy, are you in?” He tried another door and found himself in a study of sorts with...was that a throne? He pressed his fingers up against his lips, suppressing a ridiculous. How absolutely ridiculous, he thought fondly. And how _typical._

There was a slight noise behind him and he turned quickly to see a twelve foot long black snake with a bright red hood inches away from his face.

With a yelp the angel leapt back about three feet. With a hiss, so did the demon.

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale said, brushing off his lapels carefully. “You startled me.”

“Ssstartled _you_?” Crowley exclaimed, surprisingly expressively for a snake. “I'm ssorry, whosse home are we in again? I wass assleep.”

“Yes, well.” Now that he was actually here in front of a Crowley who was evidently unharmed and wasn't noticeably pining away he felt rather silly. “I thought we'd been going out this afternoon and when you didn't show up I thought maybe I should meet you here.”

Crowley reared back, his tongue flickering agitatedly. “We didn't have planss, did we? I would have remembered plansss.”

“No,” Aziraphale said stiffly, somewhere between the point of wishing himself far away and actually miracling it. “I suppose I just rather assumed.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Eventually Aziraphale coughed. “Well. I won't intrude any further,” he said, turning to walk away.

“Don't!” Crowley transformed in an instant, hand reaching out to lightly grasp Aziraphale's sleeve. “I'm sorry, angel. I didn't mean to chase you away. I was just surprised to see you is all. But not all surprises are bad.”

“Well.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks pinken. “That's alright then. Shall we have some wine?”

* * *

1Aziraphale had been the one to carefully miracle it away that night. But _he_ would always know it had been there.

2Aziraphale did have the grace to be aware he was being something of a hypocrite here, but in his own defense his books had never expressed any emotions of their own.3

3They did tend to take on the emotional aura of those around them, however. In most cases Aziraphale's collection reflected love.

* * *

A few moments later found them on a leather sofa that was impossibly comfier than it looked, drinking a vintage that was rather superior to the one it had been when Aziraphale had bought it.

“I didn't know you were scared of snakes, angel,” Crowley said, pouring them another glass.

He sat up indignantly. “I am not! Why would anyone be scared of snakes?”

“Dunno. But lots of humans are. Think maybe it's because they think all snakes are poisonous?”

Aziraphale quickly glanced towards him and equally quickly looked aside. “Well, my dear, that would only be a problem were I planning on eating you.”

He hid his smile behind his wine glass as Crowley choked.

“What have you been doing today anyway,” he asked before the demon had a chance to fully recover.

The light vanished from Crowley's face in an instant. “Oh, this and that. Thinking, mostly.”

Brooding, Aziraphale mentally translated. “There's nothing... _wrong,_ is there?” he asked hesitantly. “You haven't heard from...” He gestured vaguely downwards.

“No. No, nothing like that, 's just...” He tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. “Do you think Warlock's doing okay?”

Aziraphale blinked. He hadn't been expecting that. “Oh, I'm sure he is. Why wouldn't he be, after all?”

Crowley drained his glass. “Well, I mean, it's just that I'd – we'd – always been there for him since before he can remember, and now we're not. And you _know_ what his parents are like.”

He nodded, even though in his experience Mr and Mrs Dowling had been perfectly unobjectionable. His lips twitched. “You're worried about him.”

“No! Course not. I put a lot of work in with him, that's all. I'd hate to see all that go to waste. Who know what influences he's going to fall under now? They might be _nice._ They might not know when to make him the hot chocolate with the stars and when to just sit and play Minecraft with him until he's ready to talk.”1

Aziraphale blinked again but more slowly this time. Apparently there was quite a lot he'd missed while he was out in the garden. “Maybe - “ he started, but Crowley was already talking again.

“Sudden changes can be extremely distressing for children, all the books say so.”

“Books?”

Crowley looked at him and Aziraphale just _knew_ he was rolling his eyes behind his shades. “Yess, books. I can read, you know.”

“I know you can, I just didn't know you had,” he tried to explain. “No, hang on, that sounds worse.”

“Do you have any idea what kind of qualifications you need to be a nanny these days? I thought if I didn't know _any_ of the latest buzzwords it might look suspicious. So I glanced through some child development books in preparation. Which, I might add, is more than you did to be a gardener.”

He couldn't help the smile. “I love you,” he said, immediately following it up with “Meep!”

“Real gardeners don't _encourage_ slugs, and do you even know the first thing about compost... _what did you just say?”_

Aziraphale currently had both of his hands clamped against his mouth. “Mmmph,” he said, hoping that somehow that would be enough.

Crowley was staring at him, sitting rigidly upright on the edge of the sofa like he was considering either running or just discorporating there and then. “I...you...no, you can't...are you _sure_?”

One of them was going to have to be brave. Unfortunately it looked like it was going to have to be him. “Quite sure, I'm afraid. I've known for, oh, almost seven decades now.”

Crowley continued to stare.

He shifted nervously, wondering again about miracling himself somewhere far away. “My dear, it would really help if you said – mmph!” He was interrupted by Crowley surging forwards and kissing him.

It wasn't a very _good_ kiss, all things considered. There were far too many teeth clattering together, and Crowley never had been all that sure just how human tongues were supposed to work. The second one was _much_ better. As was the third.

Later, soberer, they lay back on the sofa together, feathers lightly entangled.

“We could take a trip to go and see Warlock tomorrow,” Aziraphale suggested.

“If you like,” Crowley said, like it was a great favour he was willing to confer.

He was, as always, happy to play along. “It would make me feel better. We could say goodbye properly. Maybe even give him a forwarding address.”

Crowley squeezed his hand tightly. His sunglasses were gone now and his eyes were luminous in the dim light. “Aziraphale...you know I do too, right? Love you, I mean.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, and he did. And that was everything that seemed to matter.

* * *

1For those wondering what an ancient demon and an eleven year old not-antichrist might build in Minecraft, the answers vary from a volcano lair complete with McDonalds, a theme park filled with screaming villagers, and a remarkably accurate recreation of the hanging gardens of Babylon.


End file.
